


temporary palaces

by pr_scatterbrain



Series: Cold War au [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2007-2008 NHL Season, M/M, captain!nicke, cold war au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-26 06:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17136626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr_scatterbrain/pseuds/pr_scatterbrain
Summary: There is nothing. Then there is everything. There is a before. There is an after.Alex defects from the Red Army. There is no going back.





	temporary palaces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AetherSeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/gifts).



> To AetherSeer - you are such a wonderful light of joy and enthusiasm in this fandom. I hope you enjoy this. I also hope it's ok that I strayed a little from your first prompt ( _Nicklas is the captain of the Capitals_ ) and also wrote an cold war au.

 

 

 

 _All palaces are_ _temporary palaces_

\- Robert Montgomery.

_“RULES OF SURVIVAL: 1. isolate. stay alone. stay lonely. you break this. you break faces. break silence. break your way into a fucked up family. not family like what childhood should have been. not family like brady bunch. family like mob. like blood oath. like blood brothers. 2. don’t stop running. you break this. you forget what it’s like to catch your breath until you’re high on oxygen. or amphetamines. you forget that this life is like drowning until you claw your way out of the ocean. you forget you don’t know where you’re running to until you pause. 3. work only for money. don’t work for his promises. or his time. or his smiles. these are worth more than you could ever hope to work off, but you break this. 4. don’t love him. you break— you break. 5. don’t tell him. or: keep your mouth closed. or: keep your door closed. or: keep your legs closed. this one, you follow. to the letter. to the end. 6. kill what you love before it kills you. you know how this one goes.”_

\- e.k.t.

_& i could eat your name for days _

— Sophie Robinson, from “<3,” published in Granta

 

 

 

Stockholm, Sweden

May 2007

 

There is nothing. Then there is everything.

There is also a before.  

 

Sitting outside the Globen arena in Stockholm, Alexander - Sanja - Ovechkin leans against Alexander - Sasha - Semin’s side as the wind picks up. His body familiar against Sanja’s. His hands are tucked into his pockets. On Sanja’s hands are Sasha’s gloves. Only they know that. Not that it is anything to know. They are on the same team; wearing the same colours on their back. They are three days into the 71st Ice Hockey World Championships, and they’ve already trounced America 4-2, and West Germany 5-1. Three goals were Sanja’s. Two came from Sasha’s assists.

They are scheduled to play the Finnish team tomorrow.

The Fins have lost their last two games, but when Sanja said as much he was reprimanded as if it was a statement of ego rather than fact.

Sanja knew better. He did. But that is beside the point.

Their bus is late and they are in public. The flush that had coloured Sanja’s face has faded but he still feels echos of shame. Or maybe anger. He can’t quite tell the difference. In a gentle shift of weight, the line of Sasha’s body softens against Sanja’s. It’s a kindness quietly offered and Sanja is greedy. An exhaled breath is all he gives in return. Ahead of them, the coaching staff are talking. They have moved a few paces away from the team. Their expressions give little away. The way they hold their shoulders and the straightness of their backs displays some sense of assurance. But they are outside of the locker room. That is both the point and also the tell.

It’s nothing worth looking at, Sanja thinks but doesn’t say. Not in public.

At the front of the huddle of team is Sanja’s team captain, Aleksey Morozov. He is standing with Pavel Datsyuk and Sergei Fedorov. The three of them are watching their head coach Viktor Tikhonov gesture at the team translator. There is something very precise about everything he says and does. Though the decisive slash of his hand is not directed at any of them, the three of them react as one. Probably Sanja should be there by their sides.

Sanja glances away.

It’s early yet, but the sky is blue and the city is beginning to come to life around them. The week is organised by hour, by scale of movement. It was all decided before any of them left Moscow by people who liked Sanja’s hands, the conformation of his body, and the way he saw the ice. Those same people have liked Sanja for many years. Sanja is good at being likable. He’s good at winning too. He is very, very good. He doesn’t have a C on her jersey, but he will one day. If all goes to plan.

Here, now, Sanja knows exactly what he has to do, when and where. The ‘how’ is also known.

His hands twitch. He shouldn't have taken Sasha’s gloves. He shouldn’t have left his own pair on the plane. He – glances at Sasha. There are bruises on his face from the Americans. An American; Zach Parise. Sasha isn’t a fighter. He was always going to come off second best. A few years ago it would have been the Canadians; that’s what Sergei had said afterwards. Sergei would know.

Sergei was Sanja’s hero. Still is.

And he made Sasha laugh.

The Canadians are in Group C, they are in Group D. They won’t meet until the next round. Their scouts were at Sanja’s game. They are regulars. If Sanja was asked, he could probably name them all. Or name the teams they represent. Maybe that’s the punchline. Probably is. Maybe it might make Sasha laugh. If Sanja can, he always tries to make Sasha laugh.

Sasha -

Sasha is leaning against Sanja’s side and he knows what Sanja is going to do. Of course he does.

 

(Sasha doesn’t ask why or when or anything.)

(Sanja doesn’t return Sasha’s gloves).

 

Washington D.C, USA

June 2007

 

Ted Leonsis doesn’t meet Alexander Ovechkin in person until he arrives in LA. He flies out to be there to greet him in person. Charters a plane and is there on the tarmac when he disembarks with George McFhee and Ville Sirén, the Capitals European scout. That is the story printed. That is the story Nicke reads at home in Sweden. There are photographs. Nicke looks at them one by one.

There are photos of Nicke taken when he meets Alex.

The Capitals fly Nicke back to Washington D.C. early, just to take them.

The last time Nicke spoke to the media, it was after losing the bronze medal match against the Czech team. The last time he spoke to them in Washington wasn’t any better. Nicke’s agent had drilled him on the questions he should expect to be asked. The Capitals PR had prepared and approved answers he was to give.

On the flight Nicke had read the info pack that he had been sent. Read it, memorised it. Then with little else to fill the remaining hours of his flight he had flicked between movies and apps on his phone, having long since given up on reading the book he had packed. Nothing seemed to stick. Not then.  

There are people in the arena. His arrival is noted and replayed down the line.

“You’re early,” Ted says when he spots Nicke.

There is a sheen to the fabric of the three piece suit he is wearing.

Nicke doesn’t feel early.

He should say something to Ted. Something. Anything. Small talk. American’s like that.

Nicke doesn’t even look at him.

Alex is smiling at him.

“Hello,’’ he says.

Nicke isn’t sure what he imagined.

“Hello,” Nicke offers in return.

George says something. Maybe an introduction. Nicke isn’t paying attention.

When Alex shakes Nicke’s hand, he steps forward. The movement easy and sure. The breadth of his shoulders and the way he angles them. His eyes are very blue, and when he smiles his face changes. He’s taller than Nicke; it wasn’t just the skates and pads. Nicke feels a little foolish for thinking so.

Alex is wearing a Capitals jersey and his hair is freshly cut. He’s signed a five year deal. It was negotiated in multiple Swedish hotel rooms and signed as quickly as possible. According to the articles that had accompanied the photos, Alex has a better contract than Nicke. Plus a healthy signing bonus. Not to mention rumours of a seven figure bonus if the Capitals make the playoffs in his first season. Ted also bought him a car. A filthy red sports car. Corvette. American made. Nicke saw it in the players parking lot when he arrived. He touched the bonnet. It was still warm under his fingertips.  

Someone says Alex’s name. He glances away.

It’s almost time. Nicke is handed his new jersey. His skates - his entire kit - is waiting for him in his stall. Alex’s is set up right next to his. His name engraved above it; his name and his number - he is a Cap now.

Alex’s English is good. Good enough.

The Caps scout said it was, but no one was sure.

It’s been a week since he defected from the Soviets.

He is the biggest story of the hockey world. He is the biggest story full stop.

And he grins at Nicke when they get out onto the ice, just the two of them for the first time.

“I wanted to play with you,” Alex tells Nicke, unprompted.

There is something terribly earnest in his voice.

Nicke lets out something that isn’t a laugh. A breath strangled.

Everyone wanted Alex.  

 

There is an A on Alex’s jersey.

Nicke notices that.

There was one on his old jersey too. There was one on both of their old jerseys.

 

In America, Sanja is Alex. A name to be said with vowels that are rounded in the mouth.

“Alex is a good kid,” George says to the media.

Ted and the Capitals coach, Bruce Boudreau, each say it as well.

Alex tries to look like one when he attends press conferences. There are multiple ones. His hands still, his breathing steady; it all matters. There is always a translator by his side. It looks better when he doesn’t use them. It is nice though, to chat with her in the hallways. She is around the same age as his mother. But she isn’t Russian. She’s Russian American, she tells him. Third generation.

There are Soviet Russian’s in Washington.

There is an embassy.

George tells him to keep his distance.

George was in Sweden with Alex. Alex can’t blame him for his caution.

It’s George who takes him in. His home is warm, and messy. There is half finished homework on tables, craft projects drying on windowsills, a cat and two dogs leaving paw prints on the hardwood floors. In the basement, Alex plays goalie for George’s kids. His son, Graham, is in second grade. With a black permanent marker, Alex signs his autograph on Graham’s hockey stick when asked.

“You’re going to have to practice,’’ Graham tells him, looking at the swirls of the A’s and the 8.

Alex puts the lid back on the marker.

They practice Graham’s backhand instead.

Alex has time for that. Alex feels like he has nothing but time.

He arrived to America with a tweaked calf muscle and a cracked rib. They both heal in the summer offseason. Everything does. He hasn’t has so much time off from hockey since he was a kid. Maybe not even then. Yet he sleeps like he can’t get enough of it. The Capitals organise a personalised training program. That is part of it; naps in the afternoon. Sunlight sliding in, underneath the heavy curtains and him curling up alone in a twin bed in the McPhee guest bedroom.

If he listens, he can hear the McPhee kids playing outside. The splashes of water in the pool. The echo of their voices. The barking of the dogs. (His heart beating in his ears)

This time a month ago he was in the barracks with his teammates. Body aching, his hands tucked close. His eyes closed but listening. Listening to Sasha breathing steadily, to the sound bedsprings as Ilya Kovalchuk rolls over, to -

Alex touches the cotton sheets; his hands grasping clumps of it.

He is here, not there.

With each breath, he tries to focus on his body, on relaxing each muscle and letting go of tension. There is a trick to it. Alex learnt it long ago. If it’s harder now, then no one knows but him.

 

The summer leaves freckles on Alex’s shoulders and arms. He sleeps, he trains, he is greedy more than he is good. He is taken out. He is shown off. He is not found wanting, nor is he left wanting. If he could, he thinks he would swallow America whole. He tries his best. From zero to a hundred miles an hour. Jeans and sneakers and rare steak served on beautiful plates in beautiful restaurants.

There is so much.

His eyes can’t take half of it in.

In July, he goes shopping with Leah McPhee for their annual 4th of July party.

The plenty of the supermarket takes him aback. It shouldn’t. He’s been in America for over a month. He’s sat down at the McPhee dinner table and eaten what was placed before him and not thought terrible much more about it. He’s been taken out to dinner more than once by Ted. The menus had left him blinking, yet the excess he finds in the supermarket is - jarring. The packets and packets of meat in the refrigerated section of the market. The stacks of eggs, of fruit, of vegetables. An isle of colourful boxes of cereal. And the way no one seems to notice. No one seems to be in a rush. No one seems bothered.

This is normal, Alex thinks.

It doesn’t feel normal.

Alex glances at Leah, at the list she is consulting.

Alex looks back at the packets of meat on display. Whole chickens. Prime cuts of beef. He’s never seen so much in his entire life.

Alex - he knows America is different.

Alex stops, when Leah touches his arm. There is something in her expression that makes him want to look away from her.

“Want to push the trolley for me?” she asks.

Half of Alex wants to go outside and catch his breath. But he can do this; he can help. The McPhee kids are talking over each other. Oblivious.

He takes a deep breath, then another.

He trails after them.

Later, in the parking lot he loads the groceries into Leah’s car. The paper bags rumple in his grasp as he shifts them. They fill the entire boot of the car.

“You okay?’’ she asks when he hops into the passenger seat.

He manages a smile. It doesn’t last, but it’s enough. Or near to enough.

He is always okay. Always.

 

There are realities.

There are lawsuits.

There are visa applications.

There is a mobile he is provided with but no one he can call with it.

He texts his trainers. Texts Bruce. George. Nicklas - Nicke.

Nicke is a continent away. George says that.

Alex swallows.

His name on the news. His face. And -

“You don’t have to watch this,” George says.

Alex shrugs.

He was at the press conference, why shouldn’t he watch it?

There is something inside his body, inside his chest. He can feel it. But it’s faint. He flips his iPhone in his hand. George said this phone was okay. That the Caps IT department had set it up for Alex. They showed him how to use it. Briefly. They helped him set up a passcode. Four digits. They grinned and told him not to use his number; that that would be too easy to break if someone wanted to.

Alex had laughed. Like a four digit code would matter.

But.

Wait.

That wasn’t the punchline.

It didn’t matter. He laughed at the right time. That mattered.

So he has a iPhone. He has a car. He has a bank account and credit cards with his name on them. He isn’t going anywhere.

Ted said that when he called to check in on Alex. He meant it as much as he meant anything.

Alex has his direct contact number. His home phone number.

Everyone has phones. Even George’s kids.

Alex’s girlfriend had snuck a phone into his bag the last time Alex was home. He wasn't meant to have one. It was a distraction. It was a mark on Alex’s disciplinary record.

It was a month before he was allowed to call his family. His girlfriend. (His ex).

A month before he was allowed to line up with his teammates to use the one communal phone. One phone call each. His mother’s voice on the end of the line. His shoulders curved. Twenty something other people pretending not to listen. Alex pretending to be alone.

He remembers his breathing changing.

He remembers later; when he had stood next to Sasha in the gym while they listened to their coach. He remembers the warmth of his body, and his fingers spanning the diameter of his wrist. His index finger resting on Sasha’s pulse. The steady and slow beat. A minute. A moment. Then Alex lifting weights. His body in motion. His body in labor, in use.

His body. His name. His face.

“Not long now,” George tells Alex.

He could mean the start of the season, the end of the lawsuits, or the finalisation of Alex’s visa. Alex doesn’t know.

“No, not long,” Alex agrees nonetheless.

 

Alex is Alex in America. This, he must not forget.

Before, when he was Sanja, one of the first things he learnt was that a person could not live in two places at once. It wasn’t something his coaches seemed to know. The past and the present were nebulous things there. Here, now, they are clearly delineated.

Alex moves forward. He looks forward.

He is the first one on the ice when training camp arrives.

 

September, 2008

 

The first day. The first week. The first month.

There is a count in Nicke’s head.

He arrives back in D.C early. Most of the team does.

He swallows his first reactions to give room for something of more use. He was made the captain of the Capitals at the end of the previous season. Officially. Unofficially he’d been taken under Chris Clark’s wing after his rookie year. The guys had celebrated with him before they had scattered in different directions. Over the offseason there were stories. There were a handful of texts from his teammates. Mike Green called after _GQ_ did a three page interview with Nicke. Back then, it was a story. Nicke is one of the youngest Captains in the league. Not the youngest. But one of them. The magazine had sat Nicke down with Nicklas Lidström for their September issue. The angle was obvious. The whole thing felt surreal to Nicke.

When Mike called after the magazine came out, he sounded happy for Nicke. Maybe even proud. He had made Nicke promise to let him buy him a drink when they both got back to Washington. Brooks Orpik buys it instead. The summer has treated him well. His arms spread wide over the back of the booth, his shirt sticking to his chest. It was always the three of them. They were the Young Guns, the young blood, and Nicke was theirs as much as they were his.

There is a lot of things they could talk about, but the first questions Mike and Brooks ask are about Alex.

Brooks leans in, his eyes flashing.

“You were there, right?”

Nicke nods. But -

“Lots of people were there in Stockholm.”

That is the truth.

Nicke was on the ice. Nicke wasn’t in the taxi Alex slipped into outside the arena, or in any of the hotel rooms he moved to and fro from in between covertly going to the American Embassy while he was waiting for his visa.

He isn’t sure how to explain that.

For all the secrecy then, it seems like everyone now knows every detail.

Over a spread of appetizers they share, they asks what Alex is like.

Nicke shrugs.

Brooks grins.

“Asking the wrong person, huh.”

The corner of Nicke’s mouth twitches.

“Tall,” he says.

He’s playing into their hands, but sometimes there is fun in that. Mike laughs, and Nicke can’t help but take a sip of his drink. It’s a tell. But he’s the one telling. Or not telling.

“Tall,” Mike repeats exchanging a look with Brooks.

It isn’t a lie.

It isn’t much either.

But why should Nicke make it easy?

“You’ll meet him at practice,” he says. His voice bland. Bored. His eye focused elsewhere; on the waiter bringing them their drinks.

Brooks snorts. “Yeah. Well. We’ll keep an eye out for someone tall and Russian.”

Nicke nods. “Good plan.”

 

Nicke is the planner. That’s what they say.

Nicke the planner. Nicke the worker. Nicke with the pedigree. Nicke, the Capitals first pick. Nicke, the captain of the Washington Capitals.

 

In training, Nicke bites back anticipation. They had all seen Alex skate before; always moving, unpredictable and unstoppable. No one on the Swedish National team had been able to pin him down. Nor any of his Capitals teammates on their various national teams. In person, Nicke doesn’t know what to expect. None of them do. They are all watching, all holding their breath.  

The cut of blades on the ice, the power in each stride.

The ease, the strange grace - almost like a ballet dancer, the unpredictability when they break up for a scrummage.

And Alex, at the end of practice, asking what’s next.

Some of the vets glance at him.

There is something in Alex’s voice that makes Nicke pause.

Alex means it.

They’ve been on ice for the best part of the morning. Nicke’s training over the summer had built up his conditioning to a point where he felt quietly confident in himself, yet he feels dead on his feet. There is nothing quite like team practice to set the agenda to the upcoming season.

What next?  

Alex is glancing around.

And Bruce is looking at him. There is something in the way he looks at Alex that Nicke turns from, grabbing his drink bottle and gulping down the lukewarm gatorade. Bruce spent the summer in Washington. He dropped everything to come back to train Alex. He looks at him like he’s a prized thoroughbred. Flesh and bone and promise and _theirs_. Theirs and no one else's.

“That’s enough for today,” Bruce tells him. His voice carrying over the ice.

Nicke doesn’t want to look at him. Looking at Alex isn’t much better.

There is something naked in his expression.

Nicke grips his hockey stick close to his body.

He wants... He doesn’t know.

Shifting his weight from one skate to the other, Nicke feels caught. Stuck. There is movement; players leaving the ice. Their voices. They exit without order. A few guys breaking away from the rest to collect the left over pucks.

Alex glances at Nicke.

He looks done. He is breathing heavily. His face is flushed. His hair is sticking to his neck. At some point his uniform must have gotten twisted. The jersey has come up and is stuck behind his pads.

Nicke probably doesn’t look much better.

Chris would have had something to say. Something reassuring. Something that would feel unrehearsed. Maybe a hand on the back of the neck. Or a ruefully shake of the head.

Nicke feels himself hesitating.

Alex is looking at him; and Nicke -

“Come on,” Nicke hears himself say.

 

New ice. New rules.

Alex is a Capital. He might be a starting winger. He was a soldier. He isn’t anymore.

But still...  

 

The first game of the pre-season is against the Carolina Hurricanes. It’s sold out. In the locker room, Nicke hears the crowd. It’s a dull sound that becomes more and more overwhelming as they make their way up the tunnel to the ice. Nicke focuses on each step and making his pace match Eric Fehr’s who is ahead of him. Behind him, he feels Mike and hears Michael Nylander talking to Chris.  

The game -

Nicke’s minutes.

The ice was better last season. It’s wet tonight. The blades on their skates are wrong for the conditions.

The Caps lose by two. Nicke isn’t sure what the fans expected to see. It probably wasn’t that outcome.

Nicke -

Nicke had played the Red Army before. He’d seen them off the ice. They were a brushstroke of colour wherever they went, but self contained. Hockey players and soldiers.

He calls his brother.

He was at Worlds too, but they don’t talk about that.

He isn’t sure why he calls.

Kristoffer asks about Alex. Everyone does.

“He is good,” Nicke says.

He is better than good.

“I watched your game against the Cane’s,” Kristoffer says, like a counter argument.

Nicke played in it.

Alex scored his first and second NHL goal within his first few minutes on the ice. His scored his third in the second period.

They were glorious. They were brutal. They were a knife and a hammer. A point made.

(They still lost).

“You were on the bench,” Kristoffer says.

Nicke was.

Bruce has them on different lines. Before the game everyone was talking about giving Alex time to adjust. They are talking about different things now.

Nicke made the most of his minutes on the ice, but not in the way Alex did. There were stars given afterward; the first to Alex. It’s the preseason. Still.

Kristoffer has more questions.

Nicke touches his ankle with his free hand. His skin is cool to the touch. His nails leave marks. He doesn’t have answers for half of the questions the press have about Alex. For Kristoffer, Nicke tries but it's not nearly enough. Nicke knows that.

He doesn’t know why he called.

Maybe he shouldn’t have.

His head aches. He always forgets how tiring it is, to have to speak English all day. He’s better at it now. Better than he was when he first arrived. He had to be. He made himself better.

He wants to hear about Kristoffer and his team. He wants to hear about home. He swallows.

There is a story Nicke’s parents like to tell. About how he took Kristoffers skates when he was a child and refused to give them back he refused to even take them off. There are photos of him stomping around the house in them.

He tells Kristoffer about practice that morning. The words form one at a time. Slowly. He can talk about the warm up, the drills. About Mike. About Brooks. About their goalie, Jose Theodore, besting them during the shoot out at the end of practice. Kristoffer hums a little at that. He sounds amused. Is amused.

“You didn’t like that.

Nicke breathes. “No.”

No. He didn’t.

 

The preseason comes and goes.

There are wins. There are losses.

Every game is sold out. Even the ones Alex doesn’t play in.

 

The team goes out as one.

In Washington Leah and George had talked to Alex about this. About what was expected. He had sat through the conversation. He wasn’t a teenager. He wasn’t a virgin either.

The veterans on the team take turns picking him up and driving him. He has a car, but he doesn’t know his way around the city yet. That’s what everyone says. It is a truth, but it isn’t the truth.

The contract he’s on is one of the best in the league. But he isn’t asked to pay for anything.  

He has money in his wallet. Credit cards with his name on them. He can. If he wanted he could buy everyone in the bar a drink. Two drinks. Three. More. He could walk into any shop in the city and buy pretty much anything he wants. He hasn’t. But he could.

In the VIP section he knocks back vodka shots.

He grins.

It’s a good joke. A good laugh.

He looks at Nicke. His mouth is narrow. He looks like he isn’t sure if he should be angry with them or annoyed at himself.

He isn’t much like Aleksey.

Alex drinks. He teaches Brooks how to swear in Russian. Maybe. He grins and that is a joke too - what exactly did he teach them? Who knows?

There is something burning a little too brightly inside of Alex. Something that pushes at his chest and strains at his ribs. He is moving, but he could be moving faster. He is scoring goals and exceeding expectations. But he wants more. He has an Olympic gold medal, three gold medals from Worlds and his name on the Gagarin Cup, why not the Stanley Cup? He’s on the front page of newspapers. He’s in the sports pages. He is on his way to becoming an American Russian citizen. For whatever that is worth.

“Why go after silver when you can have gold?” Alex says.

But he says it in Russian.

He smiles. He doesn’t translate.

“It wouldn’t translate,” he says, when they ask.

He says that in Russian too.

It wouldn’t. It was something they used to say. Something Alex remembers his coaches telling him. Only they weren’t his coaches. They were senior officers.

He was never much good as a soldier.

He wants to laugh. He’s a deserter now. That’s what the Soviet ambassador said.

“Shots,” Brent Johnson calls.

Matt Bradley waves down a waitress. He is laughing. Nicke isn’t, but he was the one to slide over his credit card at the beginning of the night. He is also the one to drink the last shot left on the table. His mouth slick. Red. Pretty. The table erupts in noise when he tilts his head back and swallows the shot in one gulp. The bar too. They are hometown heroes tonight, that’s what Donald Brashear told Alex. Alex thinks he was joking. But. He probably missed something. Some part of the conversation lost. Some part not translating right. Or translating at all. There is no translator to help.

Alex’s grasp on English is tenuous with a few drinks in him. But. It matters less and less with a few drinks in him. It matters less to everyone else.

A good song comes on. Then a better one. He throws an arm around Sami Lepisto’s shoulders. He leans into Matt Cooke’s space. No, he was never much good at as soldier. He is very, very good on the ice. He’s not bad in a bar. The girls he is shoved towards seem to think so. The cute bartender he makes out with in the coat room doesn’t seem to mind him either. Their mouth is pretty too. Alex tells them that. Probably in Russian. But it doesn’t matter. Not then. Not at all.    

“Do you have a girlfriend back in Russia?” Matt asks Alex afterwards, when Alex is running a hand through his rumpled hair trying to fix it.

Alex wants to laugh.

“Do you have girlfriend back in Canada?” he says. Slurs.  

Does Alex have a girlfriend back in Russia?

Alex does laugh.

He ends the night bundled in the back of a taxi, with Nicke.

“Such a good captain,” he says.

Or maybe he doesn’t.

English, english, english. For both of them.

Though Nicke has Michael Nylander. His has their entire family. And Alex rolls his head onto Nicke’s shoulder. He closes his eyes.

“Are you going to be sick?” Nicke asks.

He sounds uncomfortable. Distantly worried.

His body is tense. Sweaty and tense.

“Never,”Alex tells him.

Nicke doesn’t relax.

 

 

(What does Alex have back in Russia?

Alex wants to laugh. Alex did laugh in Matt’s face.

Alex rolls his head away from Nicke’s shoulder and presses his cheek to the cool glass of the taxi window.

Everyone always asks. He doesn’t want to think about what he has back in Russia, who he left back in Russia.

There is no word. No way to contact anyone safely. No way to find out if they are safe, if they are whole. The choices Alex made would have had consequences and not just for him.

His family.

Sasha.

Alex closes his eyes tightly.)

 

(What does Alex have back in Russia?

Nothing.)

 

October 2007

 

Wins and losses.

More goals. More footage for highlight reels.

A rivalry. A rival; Sidney Crosby. He’s different to Alex’s last rival. According to some, he used to be Nicke’s.

“Sloppy seconds,” Brooks grins.

Brooks would know. Alex tells him that.

They scuffle in the airport terminal.

Then later, Alex and Sidney face off against each other in Pittsburgh. The Caps leave victorious. Alex leaves with another number in his phone.

 

(Sidney can’t text for shit. But neither can Alex.)

 

The Capitals locker room is noise in a certain amount of space. It washes over Nicke in a wave of familiarity that he holds close. The ice echos.

There are people in the stands today. It’s an open practice. There are posters. Some flags. Nicke spots three Swedish ones.

Alex waves.

His helmet is unbuckled under his chin.

He covers the rink in only a few powerful strides. He makes it look effortless.

It’s easy to get caught up in him. Everyone does, Nicke thinks. There is just something about him.

When Bruce calls them over, Alex glides in next to Nicke. He’s close enough that they could knock shoulders. So they do. It’s not a thing, but maybe it could be. They aren’t on the same line, but Nicke wants that. What Alex is doing - Nicke isn’t sure what they could do if they were on the same line. But he wants to find out. So much.

They do drills together.

Alex breezes through them.

“Lazy,” he tells Mike. He tells them all that.

It’s a word he picked up from one of the awful sports commentators. They called him that. They called him other things.

Bruce talked to him about it when it started. Bruce had spoken to the press too. They still call him lazy.  

Alex talks to the press as well. They never run out of questions that want to ask him. Alex grins. Nicke doesn’t. The sports commentators call him other things. Nicke doesn’t repeat them.

Alex got a goal, an assist, and a point last night. He is rookie of the month, again.

He hooks his arms over Mike’s shoulders and tucks his chin into the crock of his neck as they wait for everyone else. Everyone within arms reach of Alex is subject to his easy affection. Nicke isn’t sure if it’s a Russian thing or an Alex thing. It makes something inside Nicke twist. He tries to deny it air, but when they end up in a scrummage, Nicke can’t help it. He pushes. It’s only practice and it’s still only October. But he pushes. The puck is his. His. And Alex can try, but Nicke won’t give up an inch without a fight.

Do they fight?

There are families watching them. Press. Fans.

Nicke’s heart isn’t a fragile thing. It’s flint and it’s fine to have it in his throat. By the time Bruce is blowing his whistle, Nicke is red faced and sweaty. Out of breath, he pants like a dog while he is subbed out and Michael is subbed in.

“Want to do that again?” Alex asks afterwards.

Nicke reacts. He can’t control it.

Alex smirks.

“Yes,” Alex says, like he got an answer. “Don’t make it easy.”

Nicke bristles.

He says something. It’s probably cutting. He shouldn’t have. There are certain responsibilities associated with his role on the team and certain things he should be above. But he can’t quite bring himself to apologise.

They end up staying late. They end up fighting for the puck. They end up showing off. No one is writing about Nicke. But what does that mean? Nothing, Nicke thinks. His body isn’t made for brutality, but those days are dying out. Nicke’s hands, his speed, his balance; all skills nurtured and carefully developed. All things he uses. He can be ruthless. He can be brutal.  

He fights to win.

It’s only practice. Only a two person scrimmage.

Alex doesn’t give an inch. He laughs though. He laughs like this is the best fun he’s had all season. It only makes Nicke more determined.

In the locker room, Nicke strips from his gear. It’s drenched with sweet. The pads rubbed oddly, and there are red patches on his skin. He catches Alex looking.

Later, he thinks maybe Alex was looking at him. Or he imagines that.

It’s. It’s a thought that feels too big. He can’t make out the shape of it. Just. It feels like something. Alex smiles easily. He flirts like breathing both on and off the ice. Nicke’s seen him when the Caps go out. People are drawn to Alex. Everyone wants his attention, his time. An autograph, an interview, a drink, a date, a hook up some random club bathroom. Nicke still isn’t sure what happened when they were in Pittsburgh. Only Alex turned up after curfew and he had lots of opinions about the Pens when the Caps sat down to watch video replays the following day.  

Alex has a lot of opinions about everything.

He speaks up in practice, in the locker room, outside of it.

Part of Nicke’s leadership role on the team means that he had to talk to Alex about that.

“There is a time and a place,” Nicke tells him.

Alex nods and smiles and Nicke wants to - he doesn’t know.

He never knows.

 

Cause and reaction.

Nicke head and his heart and the bruise blooming across the tender part of his inner thigh courtesy of the Minnesota Wild.

Alex comes over to investigate during halftime.

“Parise,” he says with a sneer.

Parise is a dick. Moreso by the fact he seemed to have their goalies number. Their goalie Jose Theodore is good, but Parise has gotten two past him.

Nicke doesn’t know what the fuck Parise has done, but Alex hates him and his entire team.

He says his name like a cuss word. Spits it out of his mouth.

“Don’t fucking fuck up,” Nicke tells him.

Simple.

Alex is looking at him. He nods.

Then when it’s his shift on the ice he stalks Parise, then boards him. Hard.

When they are in the visitors locker room during halftime, he meets Nicke’s gaze. Unrepentant. Defiant.

Nicke bites the inside of his mouth. Hard. He says some shit when it’s his turn to speak.

He was the youngest player on the Swedish team at Worlds. He’s one of the youngest players on the Caps roster. Alex wasn’t hear when the Caps chose to make Nicke the fourteenth captain of in the franchises history. But they chose him. So the Caps will listen to him. Alex will listen to him.

Nicke knows what people say about the Capitals.

They finished near the bottom of the league last season. They were the last in their division the season before that. Nicke got used to losing when he was a rookie. He’s tired of it now. He’s had enough of losing for a lifetime.  

“I will win for you,” Alex says when they are in the tunnel, on their way back to the ice.

It’s something, but it isn’t an apology.

Nicke doesn’t think Alex is capable of them.

 

They don’t win.

Bruce bag skates them the following morning. Nicke throws up over the side of the rink.

It’s fucking humiliating.

What a fucking A Grade example of leadership he is.

 

The Capitals win. The Capitals lose. Journalist fill columns in newspapers and magazines. Social media is whatever.

Nicke’s words become quotes, become exclusives.

The Caps PR team work with him. He feels stupid. He sounds stupid.

There isn’t anything written between the lines about him because it’s said to his face.

Alex was the future captain of his national team. If anyone had known it was possible to convince him to defect, no one would have given Nicke the captaincy.

Nicke wouldn’t blame them.

There is a reason Alex was given an A by both the Red Army and the Caps. He is not just a great hockey player. It’s only been a few months, but Nicke sees how the guys look to Alex. The sacrifices he has made, the naked ambition he refuses to hide. He is the heart of the team. It’s unspoken, but it’s very much apparent. He left everything he knew to play NHL hockey - Capitals hockey. There is nothing he won’t give for them - for a win, and no one wants it more than him.

What kind of captain is Nicke? What kind of leader?

He doesn’t know. He thought he did.

 

December 2007

 

At some point, Nicke starts inviting Alex over. Sometimes he brings food. A few times he comes by while walking the McPhee dogs. Nicke’s home isn’t Michael Nylander’s home anymore. It’s sprawling two story townhouse, with a wide driveway and rooms with large windows. It doesn’t look anything like any home he had known before. In Sweden it’s not like this at all for hockey players. For some reason he says that to Alex.

For a moment Alex’s expression shutters. Only for a moment. Then he is back; a laugh, a joke, a hand on the back of Nicke’s shoulders.

“America is different,” Alex agrees with a sly grin.

Nicke knows that. Everyone does. Everyone in Washington knows Alex’s bright red Corvette by sight. According to the newly minted legend, the first thing Ted did upon Alex’s arrival was to take him to a car dealership and tell him to pick out whatever car he wanted.

Nicke didn’t get a car or a six figure signing bonus.

Ted said he got Alex for Nicke.

Ted is a liar. Ted has money and an ego and he isn’t the sum of the parts he puts on public display.

Before Alex was the catch of the century, it was Sidney Crosby. Ted didn’t get him in the draft, but he did get Nicke. He and his people even convinced Nicke to come to the NHL a season early. They promised him a team.They promised him his pick of linemates. They said he would be the face of the franchise. Last season they said he was the face of the Capitals franchise. They made a lot of promises.

“I want him on my line,” Nicke told Bruce after playing the Wild.  

It felt like pulling teeth.

Nicke hated it.

Bruce merely nodded.  

Since then, the lines have keep changing. Once, twice - Nicke has had Alex. On his line, at his shoulder, a fast pass of the puck. Quick hands. Good hands. A wordless exchange. It wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for Alex; Nicke knows that.

Alex came to America because he wanted to play with Nicke.  

Nicke hasn’t said that to Bruce. He won’t. He holds those words inside himself. He looks at Alex now; he is touching the counter in Nicke’s kitchen, opening the refrigerator to peer inside. He picks up and examines a packet of coffee stored in the crisper. Nicke’s parents sent it over in their last care package. They are coming over towards the end of the month to spend the holidays with him.

Half of the team has already issued Alex invitations to spend the holidays with them. So has Ted. Which Nicke thinks would be awkward, but Alex seems nonplussed about the prospect. He seemed happy when Nicke invited him over. It wouldn’t be as grand as a Leonsis Christmas, but Nicke’s father prided himself on wood smoking their own salmon.  

They’re friends, Nicke thinks.

Alex is so bright, so bold, and so, so good on the ice. The best, Nicke thinks. Knows.  

“I want to play hockey with you,” Nicke tells him.

Alex glances up from the fridge.

“I want to win the Cup with you,” Nicke says.

Alex says Nicke’s name. There is something very careful about him and the distance he keeps. But there isn’t anything careful about the way he looks at Nicke. There never is.

“We’re going to win,” Alex promises.

And.

Alex can’t promise that. But he does anyway.

Nicke wants to laugh. He wants to talk about anything else.

There were plans. Before.

Nicke doesn’t know quite how to follow them now. When Chris Clark was the captain of the team, he always seemed to know what was the right thing to do and say.

Nicke can’t even manage to invite one teammate over without fucking things up. Chris used to throw team parties. Nicke remembers nursing a drink while Michael Nylander introduced him around his first one. Half of the names he forgot a few moments after hearing them. It was harder off the ice back then. His English had never been a problem, until he was forced to rely on it. Near enough wasn’t close to good enough when perfect fluency was expected.

His home is large. It could fit the Caps and their families. Instead his bank balance covers a team dinners.

What a joke.

Later, when Alex has gone and Nicke’s home is quiet and still…

Alex has such a huge heart and he wears it so openly. Without his presence, Nicke’s home feels empty. It isn’t long now, until his parents arrive. It’s foolish to feel homesick. Not only foolish, it feels selfish.

Does Alex get homesick?

No one talks about that.

Does he even get to be homesick?

No one dares ask.

They just say Alex was brave. That’s the narrative. That was one of the keywords that was in Nicke’s info pack, the one he memorised on the flight from Sweden to Washington. A flight Alex took, but not the flight Alex took. His happened under the cover of darkness. There was every chance he would be stopped at the gates, or stopped somewhere else by Soviet officers. Alex was the prize jewel in their hockey program. They would have done anything to get him back.

Alex gave up everything to get to Washington, to play NHL hockey.

Alex is brave. He is courageous.

He has a gold medal, his name on the Gagarin Cup. He gets cheers in Washington and boos pretty much everywhere else they play.

Washington is his home.

 

(Moscow isn’t Alex’s home anymore. It probably never will be again. Nicke knows this.They all know this.)

 

January 2008

 

In St Louis, Peter Šťastný meets Alex outside the visitors changing room. They don’t go out, but he takes Alex home and - the accent isn’t what Alex knows but it’s familiar; the scent of spices in his kitchen, the warmth as they shed their coats. It feels like home. It is Peter’s home, and it is a beautiful one.

“Icing on the cake,” he tells Alex.

And Alex nods.

Yes. It is.

The thing about the way they grew up is neither of them understood the shape of it. Not until later. Yet instinctually, they had understood it was a cage. A cage that had become smaller and smaller with each passing year. Until it reached the point where freedom was worth the risks, worth the consequences.

“Have you -” Peter begins to ask.

Alex shakes his head.

No.

The answer to whatever the question is no.

But. It is worth it.

He says that.

Peter smiles. There is something so kind about him.

There isn’t much kindness in Alex. There wasn’t any space for it. Not in Moscow. There wasn’t much to spare of anything.

“It’ll come,” Peter says. Promises.

Peter’s two brothers are with him. They are safe. They are whole. They are here.

The four of them have dinner together.

They talk in Russian, in Slovak, in a mix of Slavic languages. Their conversations overlap. They talk of all things. It makes Alex ache, like there is something too tender inside his chest. They stretch out the evening late into the night.

When Peter drives him back to the hotel the Caps are staying at, he crushes Alex in a hug. He holds Alex so tight and so close. He keeps a hold of Alex, even when his shoulders begin to shake. He doesn’t let go.

“I know,” Peter says, pressing a kiss into Alex’s hair.

He does.

He is one of the only ones who can.

 

Nicke is still up when Alex gets back to the hotel. There is light coming from underneath his door.

No. He isn’t much like Aleksey.

They aren’t sharing a room, but Nicke lets Alex in when he knocks. Nicke’s roommate, Mike, is asleep. His face buried in the hotel pillows, and his body is sprawled out over the entirety of the queen-sized bed. There is something familiar about the way hockey players share space. There is something easy about it too. Even with Americans and Canadians. But Nicke is Swedish.

His eyes are shadowed. There is a book, abandoned on his bed.

“Alex?” Nicke asks.

His mouth does something.

“Dinner was good,” Alex tells him, to save him for asking.

It was. Alex sits on Nicke’s bed. The sheets are rumpled. The blanket shoved aside. He looks at Nicke’s pale limbs, the way the bedside light washes him out. Like the photographs do whenever a photographer uses too much flash.

They win. The two of them. But the press doesn’t particularly like either of them.

“Alex,” Nicke says.

His voice is soft.

Alex closes his eyes. He leans back into the pillows. He only means to stay a moment. He just needed a moment. Only when he opens his eyes against its the morning and he is curled up with Nicke. Their legs tangled together. And for a moment Alex can’t breath. He closes his eyes tightly.

 

February 2008

 

In February, the Capitals spend most of the month on the road. They only have five home games. The rest are on the road. They travel across the country, to NYC to play the Islanders and the Rangers, to Columbus, to Florida and Atlanta. Then back to the east coast to play the Devils. It’s an unrelenting schedule of travel.

Five months in and Alex knows how to pack for road trips now. A part of him looks forward to them. He rooms with anyone who will take him. He talks to everyone. He doesn’t have enough English to say everything he wants to say.

At night though, something in him settles. Sharing space with another person. The sound of someone else breathing next to him. The feeling of someone else close.

He isn’t lonely. He isn’t.

He is free. Ted says that when Alex’s visa came though.

They drink champagne to toast the occasion.

In America Alex can have anything he wants. Even this.

Sometimes he rooms with Nicke. Not often, but sometimes. When they do, they watch movies with the subtitles on. As Nicke gets more and more tired, the less he seems to take in. They fall asleep in the same bed once. During the night their bodies find each other. Hands and arms and legs tangling.

Alex falls in love easily. He knows this. Most of his Red Army teammates knew it; how could they not when they lived cheek by jowl for eleven months of the year.

It’s stupid, to fall for Nicke.

Yet that doesn’t stop Alex.

 

Back, before -

Alex -

There is no before. There is only after. There is only this.

 

March 2008

 

Alex. The vowels rounded and long. Said with a toothy smile.

He is Alex here, in America.

Alex, Alex, Alex.

Alex flew to America with a business card, a gold medal and little else. He puts the medel away. Let Ted lock it away in one of his safes. The card he keeps tucked behind the credit cards and the cash he carries.

In Moscow, Alex grew up in a crumbling apartment building. He and his entire family had lived in a one bedroom apartment on the seventh floor. There was one communal bathroom. They shared it with ten other families.

When he was with his Red Army teammates in the barracks, there was still one communal bathroom. One phone. One single bed. Sometimes he would crawl into Sasha’s. He would find Sasha’s mouth in the darkness, his hands pulling Sasha closer. Rocking their hips together. Muffling gasps and groans.

There was so little that they could call their own. But. They had each other.

Alex tried to be a good. Tried to be quiet. Tried to not be selfish. He did. But he _wanted_. He just wanted so much. He always had. And it wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

It was an open secret.

They each had mentors. They each had minders who watched them when they traveled; KGB. They wore suits. They wore nice shoes. They knew the names of all the scouts who came to Alex’s games. They hardly ever took their eyes off him.  

“Don’t,” Alex remembers being told by Anton Volchenkov.

His uncle was the director of the the Sokil Kyiv hockey school. So Anton would probably know better than most. Or maybe he doesn’t.

Alex isn’t sure if he will ever see him again. Him, or anyone else.

 

Alex scores and scores. In early March the Caps play the Tampa Bay Lightning and he crosses the 50 goal mark.

On the ice, he drops his stick and pretends it’s took hot to pick up. It’s stupid and joyous and he gets crap about it from inside and outside the team. Which means Nicke has to talk about it, even though it’s the last thing he wants to waste his time doing. He has to talk to Mike about it took, because he was on the ice celebrating with him. Mike had managed to say some shit to the media about not getting involved, which watching a replay of the game would turn him into a liar. But no one called him on that. Only Nicke.

Alex isn’t apologetic.

He smiles a lot. He angles his body to Nicke. In his orbit, his body is less familiar. His height, the way he angles himself. Nicke tilts his chin. It is an inch given.

They both know the whole thing is BS.

Nicke had vaguely planned on organising some kind of celebration for Alex’s fiftieth goal. That wouldn’t happen. Alex would probably get some kind of performance bonus though. Maybe another car. Or a rolex. He had asked Chris about it. What he had done in the past, what he might have done for Alex.

It felt important to do it right.

Nicke got him his number.

He got them all their numbers made up as pendants at a local jeweler. His, Mike’s, and Brooks’s. He meant to give it to them all at the end of the regular season. But it feels right to toss Alex the small velvet box now.

“For me?” Alex askes. His mouth narrow; trying not to smirk.

“No,” Nicke says dryly. “For Vincent Lecavalier.”

The locker room breaks out into jeers.

 

The Caps go out.

The city doesn’t give a shit about hockey players.

Alex eyes Nicke. The diamonds of the pendant glimmer under the shifting lights. Nicke feels his gaze. It’s heavy and he doesn’t look away when Nicke returns it.

He doesn’t turn away when Nicke goes over to him. He goes easily though, when Nicke tells him they should head out.

“It’s getting late,” Nicke says.

His heart is beating steadily. Stubbornly.

Alex was meant to be his. That was one of the promises made.

In the taxi back to him place, he tells Alex that.

Alex smiles.

There is something very sharp and, so very golden about him.

Nicke wants him so very much. Wants him more than anything. He has waited, for so long. Since that very first international meet when Nicke was the youngest member of the Swedish team and Alex was the youngest on the Soviet team.

“I remember you,” Alex says.

Nicke remembers him too. He remembers blood in his mouth and sweat in his eyes. He remembers being beaten, outplayed, and being unable to think about anything else but how easy Alex and his teammates had made it look.

Nicke isn’t a teenager anymore. He can keep promises though. Even if no one else can.

He kisses Alex when they are alone. When there is a locked door between them and the world.

Nicke doesn’t really have any idea what he is doing, but Alex does.

“Don’t worry,” Alex tells him.

Nicke isn’t worried.

Nicke knows he isn’t particularly good in bed. But Alex isn’t bad.

In Nicke’s bedroom he undresses without grace. In one easy movement he pulls his shirt over his head, not bothering to unbutton it. In the low light, his skin is pale. There is such strength in his shoulders, in his body. His hair is a mess. It always is. Nicke makes it worse, tangling his fingers in it when they kiss.

He lets Alex strip him. Touch him. Pin his hands above his head hard enough to leave bruises and rock their hips together. Nicke feels desperate. His heart races inside of his chest and he can’t help by tenses when Alex licks a line from Nicke’s throat to the edge of jaw. Gasping, he arches underneath Alex’s broad body. It’s so much – the feel of Alex’s body, the warmth of his skin, the blue of his eyes – but somehow it isn’t enough.

When Alex wraps one hand around both of their cocks, Nicke cries out.

“Shhh,” Alex whispers, but Nicke can’t be quiet.

When he comes, he almost collapses. Alex goes to move away but Nicke can’t manage to let him.

“No, no, no,” he murmurs into the crock of Alex’s neck.

“Not yet.”

Not yet.

“Nicke–”

“Stay,” Nicke says. Begs. Both.

Alex bites at his lip, bites Nicke and leaves hickies all over his neck and chest. It’s almost too much but when Alex releases Nicke’s hands, Nicke digs his fingers into Alex’s shoulders and holds on as Alex starts to move his hips. Over sensitive, every thrust of Alex’s cock against Nicke’s softening one simultaneously makes Nicke want to pull away and push closer. Desperation makes the distinction between the two indistinguishable. Nicke struggles to breathe. Alex’s shoulders shake a little. Nicke can feel the tremors. It only takes a few more thrusts and Alex comes, breathless and flushed and so very alive.

He is pretty quiet. He hardly made a sound at all.

“It’s alright,” Nicke says, kissing him. “It’s okay.”

It is. He thinks. Or it will be in time.

Alex laughs a little. Then makes a sound that isn’t a sob, but feels painful to Nicke. He hates it. He loves Alex. He doesn’t tell Alex that. He can’t. Not now. Not yet.  

It takes time but eventually sleep takes them; between an inhaled and exhaled breath. In the morning they wake up tangled together.

 

April 2008

 

The Caps look like they may make the playoffs.

“That will make a nice pay day for Alex,” Don Cherry says.

It is a thing. A story. A scandal of sort.

Alex winning. Alex making money. Alex earning his performance bonuses.

“Here, it is greedy. At home it was practical,” Alex tells Nicke once, while they are waiting to be interviewed together.

There is something so very honest about him.

In Sweden, it was enough to have enough. But Nicke always had enough.

Maybe Alex could have been captain of the Red Army. Maybe if things were different he could have been captain of the Capitals. But -

“I don’t want it,” Alex tells Nicke.

It’s a lie.

Alex smiles a little when Nicke says that.

“I won’t take it from you,” he says instead.

It’s an obnoxious statement. The truth in it doesn’t change its shape. He could. But he won’t.

Maybe if Nicke could, he would stand down. He doesn’t want to. He’s always been selfish. Greedy too. His hands around Alex’s wrists, his nails leaving marks.

The Capitals probably didn’t know what they were doing when they put a C on Nicke’s jersey. That’s their fault. They thought they were getting Nicklas Lidström. Nicke isn’t that. He had watched the C been sown onto his jersey. He won’t give it back. He won’t give Alex back either. Never. Not a chance.

Nicke is selfish. He is possessive. He is protective. The Caps are his team. Alex is his winger.

Alex is - Alex is the heart of all of them. The best of them.

Nicke knows what sort of captain he is. What sort of person he is.

His heart is deep inside of him; flesh and flint and there are bite marks on Alex. Bruises. It was hard won. All of it. All of him. And Alex has to keep him now. That’s the price. No one knows that better than Alex.

He hasn’t told Alex that he loves him. But he thinks Alex knows.

 

There is a dogeared business card in Alex’s wallet.

“You don’t need that anymore,” Ted says, once, when he finds Alex flipping it over and over in his long fingers.

Alex shrugs.

He supposes not. But still. He keeps it.

 

There is a diamond pendant hanging around his neck. His number; made by Nicke.

It’s not very American. It’s not at all Canadian. But it matches the one Nicke wears, the one Mike and Brooks wears. They are the Young Guns. They are the future. They are in the playoffs for the first time in years. Maybe they’ll end the season with some silverware. Who knows?

 

The length of his arms, his legs, the way he laces up his skates.

In America he has yellow laces and is called Alex. Difference accents make the one name sound different. He isn’t used to hearing it.

It’s been almost an entire year. He will get used to it.

There are things he has gotten used to. There are names and faces and the space of his home which stretches out around him.  

The weather is turning.

Alex sits in the McPhee garden.

There is still some sun left. The sky is blue and the grass under him is green.

He feels alive and he feels free.

He is a continent away. He is home.  

 

 

 

  
  
  
 

**Author's Note:**

> Find/follow me on [tumblr](http://www.pr-scatterbrain.tumblr.com) if you want <3


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